


A Stranger In Snowdin

by ReaderRose



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2018-03-28
Packaged: 2019-02-19 23:05:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13134087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReaderRose/pseuds/ReaderRose
Summary: A traveler moves to Snowdin, and he seems to running from something.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [carolc24](https://archiveofourown.org/users/carolc24/gifts).
  * Inspired by [It's Raining Right Here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11118105) by [kaliawai512](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaliawai512/pseuds/kaliawai512). 



> This is based on a "what if" of "It's Raining Right Here", where instead of the things that happened, Papyrus runs away.
> 
>  
> 
> This is going to be 2 parts! Sorry! I got a little over-ambitious with this and focused too much on setup instead of delivery. Sorry! Part 2 will be up hopefully soon!

With a single suitcase, a heavy hood, and little left to lose, a figure waits at the docks. The ferry approaches, and the figure does his best to straighten himself up… but the slumped posture remains like an echo on the rocks, and he doesn't bother to give a smile like he might have on a better day.

Neither can see the other's face, but the one on the dock feels as if the Riverperson can see right through him. Maybe they can. If they can, maybe they know what he's looking for. 

“Tra la la~ Care to ride on my boat?”

A weak nod, followed by a muffled “please,” quieter than the air at the docks, as unsteady and wavering as the waves. But he boards, struggling with his luggage before finally lifting it and placing it on his lap as he seats himself. It isn't a very big suitcase. 

“Where to?” The Riverperson asks. 

The figure pauses, having no real answer to such a simple question. He thinks. He whispers, “as far away as you can take me.”

It's impossible the Riverperson heard him, but they take off all the same without asking the question again. 

The caverns grow darker as the boat sails deeper into a cold and uncertain night.   
  


* * *

 

The boat docks in Snowdin Village, and the Riverperson asks him if he plans to stay. He isn't sure, but this is, apparently, the end of the line, as far as they will go. And he knew that, he knows that, at least he should have. He wasn't the brightest, but he knew geography well enough to know this was the end and yet… maybe he'd hoped he remembered it wrong. Maybe he'd imagined in his soul that the boat could go further, through the forest and into the Ruins, where he could meet incredible new people, an entire secret Underground, a mirror, one where things were the same as ever, and he'd never felt the need to run away. Or maybe he'd expected the boat to cross the barrier, from the shadow of the mountain into the shadow of humans, a legend, hidden away, but good, a protector known only through whispers, but trusted completely. 

He knows that's just a fantasy, but the cold air nipping at what parts he has exposed is just a little more real than he'd been hoping for. Everything is too real lately. And at the same time, nothing feels as it should be.

The traveler would rather live in his fantasies. They'll never be real. Not like his nightmares.   
  


He realizes the other hooded figure has asked him a question. He didn't hear it. He was too distracted. But he assumes it was some sing-songy way of asking “do you plan to stay?” And he isn't sure how to answer that question. Not at all. But he nods for them to leave, and departs the docks to explore the village alone. 

He doesn't watch then sail away, but he feels himself become more alone. 

It's a common feeling, lately.    
  


The streets are empty, which isn't a surprise. It's the middle of the night, closer to a theoretical dawn than a theoretical dusk. Back home, you generally can't tell what the sky outside was doing, but he can't remember if Snowdin is different. He knows he's been here before, on trips with the family, and maybe at school, but it's all in a fog for him. This feels like the first time. 

It's dark enough to make the streetlights glow, but most aren't lit. There are signs on buildings he can't really read, houses and businesses and what might be a public library. 

The stranger has no idea where he's going.

Eventually he finds a single building with the light still on, an inn, with a vacancy sign, and he finds himself at the big, wooden door, tracing the grain with a gloved finger, gathering the strength to go in. The sign says come in. He should go in. He wants to go in. 

Finally, he goes in.   
  


The lobby is small. There's a chair, and a desk, and a wide stairway up into the rest of the inn. At the counter is a rabbit, and the traveler guesses they are roughly his own age. He can't tell. It's just an assumption. 

Their ears perk up as he enters, and he feels weird being the center of anyone's attention. He was used to the Riverperson. This is someone new. 

Uncertain of how to proceed, he stumbles over to the counter with his suitcase, looking more than a little lost. Mercifully, the other monster takes pity on him and says, “Welcome to Snowed Inn! Snowdin's premiere hotel! Would you like to rent a room?”

Does he? Is that what he's doing here? Dumbly, he nods. 

“Awesome. Okay, uh, rooms are currently running at a special rate, only 60G a night this week! Normally it's 80G. How long are you planning on staying?”

Money and amounts are so distant from his mind… He can't recall if that's cheap, out expensive, and whether he can pay it at all. It's too real. It's too unplanned. His head has been in such a fog and it's not as if today’s misadventure was the product of a great new clarity. Quite the opposite. He can't even remember right now what prompted him to leave. Did he even bring money with him? What's in his bag? Where does he keep his money? It's all daunting and overwhelming. 

The clerk waits patiently with a smile he wishes he remembered how to match. He used to be good at that, wasn't he? But none of these thoughts were even addressing the right question. How long did he plan to stay?

“... I don't know?” He sounds lost and more than a little weak. It makes the other monster's grin and ears fall. They force them back up. It's familiar. 

“Uh. Okay, so an indefinite stay? Um…” the rabbit thinks, tapping a paw against the countertop, quietly, “Long term?” 

The stranger nods. He isn't really certain, but for the moment, he can't think of another option, and it's easier to nod, agree, and follow along than it is to try to understand what he wants and needs. There's less thinking this way. Less to vocalize. Normally, he isn't the type to take the easiest route, but lately even the easiest things feel hard. 

(Sometimes, the easier things are harder. It would have been easier to stay, and he didn't.)

The clerk frowns, tapping his paw even faster in thought, before looking the stranger over. Their eyes soften, and they shrug.  “Okay, uh, listen. My aunt… I'm not…” another tap-tap-tap of one paw as they use the other hand to gesture. “So… I only just started working here, and I'm not totally sure about the rates and rules for the long-stay rooms? I could ask my aunt, but… she just had kits so I don't really wanna wake her up…” 

The stranger stares, unsure of what that means. Why is it so hard to process anything, lately? But he prepares for the worst: being kicked out. He isn't sure what he'll do if it comes to that, but he expects it. Still, he waited for the other to collect their thoughts. It's only polite… and it's also easier than to start moving on, or going back. Maybe he will go back…

“So here's what I'm going to do! I'll get you set up in a standard room, no charge tonight. I'm let my aunt know what's up, and when she's up and ready for the morning, she can call you down and figure out everything. Okay? Does that sound good?”

“...No charge?”

“Well, yeah. Tonight's on the house. I mean, it would only be a temporary room for now, so maybe don't unpack your bag, but the night's half over already and… you look really tired.” The bunny says that last bit rather softly, and offers a kind smile. “You can probably use a rest! It seems fair to me!”

They were just going to let him stay? For free? That was… that's so much kinder than anything he's become accustomed to. He forgot that people could be so… so nice. He hadn't expected it. 

“T-thank you. Thank you.”

“Let me just get you your key… what’s your name, friend?”

The traveler pauses and considers his options. His first instinct is to lie–and since when is that an instinct at all?– but ultimately he decides against it. After all, the simple act of being a skeleton would give him away long before his own name would, so there really isn't much of a point in deception. He smiles out of politeness, but mostly relief, and says “Papyrus.”

 

* * *

 

Papyrus doesn't sleep for what's left of the first night. He doesn't do much of anything. He just lies there. Waits. It's not much different from what he's done lately. The difference is he's less worried about what lies just being his door. There are less things to fear, here.

And nothing feels real, from the moment he enters the room. And if nothing is real, there is nothing to worry about. Nothing to think about. So he doesn't. 

He can't sleep in an unfamiliar bed, but he thinks maybe he's forgotten how to sleep, anyway. 

As morning approaches, and the window to his room begins to lighten, reality returns with the echoes of daylight. (It turns out, Snowdin does catch some sunshine! He isn't sure he ever knew. Despite his muddled thoughts, be is happy to learn that.) With that reality comes anxiety. He needs to talk with the owner about staying longer, and that's a lot to think about, and thinking, lately, is so very hard. 

Finally he manages to get off the bed and count his coins. Thankfully, he did bring quite a bit of gold. He fears he hadn't thought of it, but no, he had. Counting it proves difficult. He was never the smartest, but he used to be able to count… right? But now the numbers just slip through his skull like it's full of holes. A running count is impossible to maintain. 

He really isn't well…   
  


Hrs still fruitlessly shifting through coins when a knock comes to his door. He quickly gathers everything he can and heeds the call.   
  


* * *

The bunny in charge has a warm smile that reminds him of someone. He can't place a name, or a face, or more than a simple thought to the similarity, but it's comforting all the same. She's nice. She likes to talk, and that's another comfort, because she fills up all the silence and leaves no lulls or dips, never relies on him to engage, to ask questions, to show he's paying attention. He couldn't if he wanted to… and he does want to. He just can't.

But he picks up a few things. Her name is… Meg? Or was that her sister? Basil? Was that her daughter? Or her son? No, her son was Fennel? No, no, that was her nephew. Yes, her nephew who was working for her. He was the one who Papyrus had met. He tries to commit the names to memory but just quickly she moves on, and his skull is left empty again. He feels bad about not remembering, but she doesn't quiz him, just happily talks, singing the praises of her family. If it was just a few months ago, he would have everything memorized already. But if it was a few months ago, he wouldn't be here, so he just accepts that he'll have to accept forgetting, and learn more slowly as time goes. 

After all, he's going to be here for a while. 

It's harder still to get used that idea. 

The innkeeper (Hazel? Basil? Fennel? Meg? Juniper? He's already forgotten who is who.) smiles as she existing his options, but he doesn't understand most of it. Even living in the shadow of geniuses never made him feel this slow, but eventually she makes a call for him, and that's for the best, really. 

He fumbles with payment, and eventually she tells him he can get settled in, first, and leads him to a room. 

She makes a joke, something like “welcome to your new home!” And it stings. But he tries not to show it. The room is nice. It has a little kitchen, a couch, a bed, a shower. It's all a little tight, but that doesn't bother him much. 

He smiles in appreciation, and she leaves him to unpack. 

He's sure he hasn't made the best first impression, but he hopes she'll understand. For a moment, left alone, his mind starts turning the way it must have, once. He thinks about the meals he can cook, here, the view from the window. Maybe he can get curtains? He wonders if the bed is soft. He notices a TV on the corner and wondered if it works. Does Snowdin have different channels? Do they get channels at all? And what else is there to do in Snowdin? Can he play in the snow?

But just as quickly, sobering snags, something reminds, and things in his head slow back down to a crawl. 

He collapses on the bed. 

He does not sleep.

 

* * *

 

For the first three days, Papyrus does very little. 

The first day is fine, but from thereon after, a shadow of doubt looms over him. 

He wonders if they're missing him.

He wonders if they noticed. 

He wonders if they're looking for him. 

He wonders if they would want to. 

He isn't sure if he wants them to come for him, or if he wants them to leave him be.

He checks his phone, and find no answer. After the tenth time, by his count, he decides to stop. To stop thinking about it. 

Objectively, things back home were bad. He knows that. That isn't how things should have been. Things had always been much better. But he can't pretend it's nothing, and he can't pretend it’s only temporary. He's done enough pretending, and now it's just too hard. Some things aren't temporary. Some things stick. If someone were to check him right now, they would never realize just how high his HP used to be. (And yet he still had much more to give. If they'd let him. If he'd been better. But he wasn't even good as a pincushion. He wasn't good enough to finish what they'd started.)

(And no matter how ‘good’ things had always been, he first packed the suitcase long before the first injection. He hasn't forgotten that, yet.)

He spends the days thinking. And hiding. And thinking. He never thinks himself very far, though. 

He checks his phone. There are no missed calls, and no new messages.

 

* * *

 

On the fourth day, he feels something.

 

He's hungry.

 

That makes sense. He didn't bring food. In fact, he isn't sure when he last ate. He used to keep better track of these things. It reminds him of home, of them. They never remembered to eat if he didn't remind them! But… wow, he had never forgotten such things himself. He wondered if these many he was getting more like them, or even less.

Maybe he didn't want to think about that. 

But food. Yes. Food. He couldn't be without it for too long. Right. He should get some.   
  


It takes a while, but he wills himself to leave the room, and make his way down the hall and down the stairs. The innkeeper is on duty, not her nephew, and she's holding something wrapped in a blanket in her arms.

He walks slowly, cautiously past. He wanted to ask about groceries (he's sure she mentioned options to him on the first morning, but...) But she seems preoccupied. 

“Hey there, Papyrus! Do you want to meet my little Baylea??”

He jumps a little, but looks over with wide, questioning sockets. Now he can see. Inside of the cloth is the tiniest little monster, eyes tightly closed, fur only just beginning to poke through. He walks over, watching how the little bundle squirms and sniffs at the air with curiosity at his approach. 

The little one coos and reaches out a tiny paw in his direction. Papyrus reaches to meet her touch (his hands are so much bigger than hers!) But he stops, unsure, and looks to the baby's mother. 

“It's okay! Don't be afraid! She's still very little. He eyes won't open for at least another week, but I can already tell she likes you!”

He almost questions her before his attention is torn away and to the baby, who teaches out even further to meet his bones, grabbing at his distal phalange. 

It's amazing how so much warmth could spread so quickly from such a little source. The moment he feels it in his finger, he feels it in his soul, his ribs, and all throughout his bones. He doesn't recognize the sound he makes at first, until the little bunny mimics him with a bright and cheerful giggle. 

“Hello little Baylea! Are you having a wonderful day today??” He asks without thinking much on the words. It feels natural. In response, she chirps, and moves her other hand to grab at another finger. “You are!? Well that's wonderful! Stupendous!! I'm so happy to hear that!”

Papyrus looks to the innkeeper–was it Hazel? …Oh! Harissa!!— he looks to Harissa, smiling warmly at the display. “Do you really think she likes me?”

“Of course! I haven't seen her warm to a stranger like that yet. And you know, I've noticed something…” she says, kissing the to off her daughter's head. “She's a  _ great _ judge of character. So if she likes you, you probably really deserve it.”

The moment her words register, he can't help the smile that breaks out across his face. Smiles like that used to come a lot more freely, but never were they as natural as this one.   
  


Eventually Baylea gets cranky, and Harissa (was it Harissa? He hopes he's right about the name. He thinks it was Harissa, at least.) Takes her back into a side room to nap, away from the lobby. When she returns, she engages him in small talk, this time it ends up a little less one-sided. Papyrus doesn't talk much, but a lot of the fog of his arrival has receded for the time being. Maybe it's the warmth that's still lingering on his fingertips, or maybe it's the sharpness of his hunger. Maybe both. But he feels more real than not right now, and it's not so hard to think and answer and speak. 

Harissa(?) tells him there's a shop right next door, run by her sister, and a bar a bit down the road that serves a lot of warm meals and good company.

 

* * *

 

 

Papyrus decides to go to the shop, because warm food sounds wonderful, but company is daunting. 

It's small, for a place that's supposed to serve a whole town's shopping needs… but he realizes that the town is small, too. Nothing makes that fact more clear than the greeting he receives while scanning the aisles. 

“Papyrus, right??”

He jumps at his name, fearing the worst, but the worst never comes and the shopkeeper explains. “Sorry, didn't mean to spook you, hun. My sister told me we had a new long-stay guest in town and I couldn't help but wonder when you'd be coming in so I could roll out the welcomes for you!” She smiled, less warm than get sister's, but jovial and wide. “I was getting worried you were going to stick to Grillby's and never drop on in!”

“Oh. S-sorry. I… haven't been to Grillby's, either.”

“Really? You been in town what, like four days or so? You bring your own food with you?”

He didn't know what to say, so he nodded. It wasn't, technically, a lie. He'd packed a few protein bars. 

“Hm. Well, sorry, not meaning to pry, but I sure am glad to see you around finally! Here! This is for you!”

The bunny, taller and sturdier than her sister and obviously quite a bit older, holds out a paper bag. The skeleton takes it slowly, and opens it. Inside are pastries and what look to be coupons at the bottom with some napkins. 

“T-thank you, ma’am!”

“Hey, no need for ma'ams. You can just call me Nutmeg. Or Meg. Whichever your preference! But never Megan, got it?” She waited for an affirmation before asking, “now, you prefer 'Papyrus,’ or something else? And is it they? It?”

“Um. He/him, actually! And I just use Papyrus. No nicknames! I like my name!”

“Okay, just one more question, and I'll let you get back to shopping. So, this is only because you remind me of my son, so I'm wondering if my guess is right. How old are you, sweetie?”

“I'm nineteen, ma’a– Meg. Meg.”

“Exact same age as my son. He's been workin’ night shifts at my sister's, so if you're ever in a talking mood and you can't sleep, you can always go downstairs and let him give you somea his time. He could always use more friends. Not a lot of people in town your age bracket, you know?”

Papyrus nodded for what felt like the fortieth time since his arrival, and felt all the more awkward for it. “I'll keep that in mind. Thank you!”

“‘Course, Papyrus!”  
  


The skeleton eventually ends up with a few small items to start. He doesn't know what he wants to make, so much of it is ready-to-eat and microwavable stuff he would have once lectured S– stuff he would have once thought was too crude for his refined pallet.

But cooking doesn't sound particularly appealing. Food does.  

As he checks out, he notices a basket of fruits behind the counter, wrapped in cellophane and tied with a pretty bow. 

“Um… Miss Nutmeg?”

“Miss Nutmeg! Oh that's sweet! What is it?”

“Can I… uh… can I also get that basket? And um... send it to someone? Is there mail here?”

“Course there's mail, sweetie! Town would be a lot worse off if there wasn't. We got an outgoing right in the back. Just be sure to put a stamp on it. We sell those too, but there's a whole sheet of them in there,” she points at the brown bag she gave him, “so no need to worry about that, okay?”

He nods, and after figuring out how to carry everything, repeats his old address in his head to make sure he still remembers it, underneath the fog in his mind. 

They really did always forget to eat without him around, after all. And he's gotten a new appreciation for the feeling of hunger borne of apathy. It's terrible. He doesn't want that for them.

 

* * *

 

The next week or so goes mostly the same. Papyrus doesn't leave the room much. When he does, it's usually just to get more food. Junk, mostly, though there's usually a pastry or two Miss Nutmeg offers him when he arrives. Free of charge.

One day he decides to make pasta. He was never a big fan, but it’s easy, and it's hard to screw up. He used to be proud of his cooking skills, and he used to always be up to the challenge, any challenge…  but… the last few meals he made, no one ate. 

So he aims for easy. Simple. The best he can manage.

At first, everything seems fine. The sauce is storebrand. He was going to add his own spices, but he forgot what spices were good for it, so he leaves it bland and a little tasteless, and that seems reasonable. It should be fine. 

He boils the noodles and it’s a slow process. Was he supposed to stir? A lot? A little? Was it always add oil, or never add oil? He… he’s not that stupid. He never thought he was this stupid, at least. It’s like every step of the process has fallen out of line, and he can’t quite place things back together. 

It would be frustrating if he was capable of feeling it, but really, everything is just numb, and it has been since he left, and maybe even before that, as well. There had been a fear there, back home, though he wasn’t sure of what. The experiments hadn’t been scary. It was everything else. Constantly on edge. But now that he wasn’t… it was like there was nothing left there underneath.

But if he can learn -- relearn -- to cook, it’ll be cheaper in the long run. Healthier. He still isn’t sure there is a long run, though, and that ebbs away a bit at his motivation. But he loved cooking, once, so maybe he can find something to feel in trying it again.

Only the noodles stick to the side on the pan, above the water, and start burning, and in his distraction in trying to fix it, ends up burning himself, scalding his bones in the process, but he can’t genuinely feel temperature, and it does not hurt, and he pays it no mind besides the way his joints move slowly, scraping bone against bone, but it’s fine. It doesn’t hurt. Nothing hurts worse than what he’s had and he’s used to ignoring it now. And it doesn’t hurt.

The noodles take up all of his focus and attention and stay that way until the sauce begins to burn and bubble and boil. He was right next to the sauce, yet somehow he forgot it. And when he tries to tame the sauce, some splattering onto the burners, causing smoke and steam and fog in his head, and a ringing in his head, because the alarms are going off and the noodles are burning and how do you… wait there’s an easy… wait. WAIT!

He moves quickly to take the pots off the stove top. He forgets the handles, the potholders, and burns his hands even further, but again, it’s fine, and this solved it. At least, nothing is burning now. 

He hears a banging at the door and his bones turn to rubber and jump at the sound. He hears a fumbling of keys, one entering the lock, and he tenses up, terrified, his safe room being invaded and harsh magic already coursing through his soul, waiting to fight, scared and ready to defend. And it doesn’t get better when he sees the door open, and someone enter, ice magic at the ready.

Papyrus is ready, too.

But a second later he comes to his senses, and sees it’s only Fennel. The fire alarm is still going off. 

The bunny only wanted to save him from disaster. Well, it certainly is a disaster, but Papyrus isn’t sure anyone would be able to save him.  
  


 

Fennel turns off the alarms. With a smile, Papyrus explains his attempts at cooking went awry. Fennel laughs with him. He’s bad at cooking too, he says, and Papyrus smiles and laughs with him. And they both laugh. And it’s funny. It’s so funny. 

Papyrus waves him off as he’s leaving, before realizing, and he knows the monster saw before he snatchs his hand back behind him. He doesn’t understand the look on his face, but he doesn’t like it. It reminds him of S-- of the people he’s not really thinking about anymore.

But the bunny leaves, and Papyrus cleans up the mess.

Or at least he tries to. Because maybe it’s the burns. Maybe it’s the awful smell, or maybe it’s just everything, absolutely everything, all at once, but Papyrus screams. He cries, too, but he’s far more angry than anything else. He’s angry. 

Cooking was the one thing he was good at, the one thing he had going for him and… he couldn’t even do simple. Easy. He used to be proud, but even this was just… taken away. 

And it isn’t fair! None of this is fair! He has  **_nothing!_ ** And it’s not fair!!

And somehow, because the world is far too confusing to understand anymore, acknowledging the unfairness of it all makes him feel a lot better.  
  


He cleans up the next morning.

 

* * *

 

The week after that progresses the same, with one exception: Papyrus doesn’t try to cook.

And the week after that, and the week after that.

The money starts to tick down. Budgeting becomes a more immediate concern, though it also becomes easier the longer he’s away from home. The fog hasn’t cleared, but it doesn’t consume him quite as much. He remembers names, and not just of the people he sees every day or so, but of the various locals he’s only met once, or only heard of through stories and overheard gossip. 

He starts to feel less like the stranger who drifted into town, aimless and hopeless, and more like… maybe not a part of things, but somewhere closer to that. It’s nice.

Some nights he does go down and talk to the shopkeeper’s son. He’s planning to start his own business, working nights to help his aunt and raise the starting capital. He wants to sell ice creams, and he starts bringing in samples for Papyrus to test. 

Papyrus doesn’t like sweets very much, but he savors them. And they get much better.

 

Some days he watches Baylea for her mother, usually only for a half hour or so, while she's with a difficult customer, or a long phone call. The baby gets bigger, clingier, and it's no stretch to say she adores him, though he doesn't understand why. She grows up so quickly, too. Sure enough, a week after arrival, she opened her big, wide eyes, and now her favorite activity is to watch him. Papyrus hates being watched (that's new), but he makes an exception for her, and his soul warms each time she seems to imitate him. 

 

Mostly, he stays in his room, but it's nice. Meeting people. Exploring the town. It starts to feel a little bit more familiar. 

It would be wrong to say it feels like home, but given what home started to feel like, it's welcome.

 

He sends a basket every week, and never receives a message. 

( He never sends one, either.)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is going to be 2 parts! Sorry! I got a little over-ambitious with this and focused too much on setup instead of delivery. Sorry! Part 2 will be up hopefully soon!
> 
> (Additional note: As vengeance by a universe on Papyrus's side, not 6 hours after uploading this, I burned my hands in the dumbest way possible)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Papyrus has bad days, and Papyrus has good days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm updating this instead of Stars Stones and Stellar Remnants tonight. I was close to finished with this, and had the inspiration for it, and I wasn't fond of my draft for Stars, so this worked out best.
> 
> I dunno if this is any good or not. I'm pretty unsure about it, but it's nice to be done with something for a change!

Papyrus struggles a bit on his own, if he’s being honest.

For a while, he had the excuse of this all being very temporary, even if it never was. Now, all pretense of going back is gone, and his hotel room is a mess, and he’s having trouble with feeding himself. It’s the kind of nightmare he used to have about others, not himself, but…

He just doesn’t have the energy to fix things. To dishevel everything further to give himself a chance to rearrange and make everything clean again. Something has to give. He’s just delaying facing it. He’s so used to being all or nothing all the time that when he can’t be all he needs to be, he’s left with… well.

He tries not to be too hard on himself. And he tries to be hard on himself. He gives himself pep talks. He gives himself lectures. That he’s even doing that at all is a sign of progress, but it doesn’t feel like enough.

 

At the same time, Papyrus knows there are ways he’s getting better.

 

He leaves the room more often. He spends more time outside.

The cold air is nice. It’s much fresher here than most parts of the Underground. Crisp, clean. And the snow, it turns out, is lovely. It’s also soft! It’s nice. Like a blanket across the world. It makes the world feel friendlier, knowing it’ll cushion him if he ever suddenly decides to meet it.

There's another member of a branch of the bunny family he sees sometimes. (A cousin of the ones he knows? He thinks? Or siblings from another litter, distant? Something. He should try to keep better track. He doesn’t have a guess as to her name. Well, actually, he does. He just knows it’s wrong. It's not this girl's name). She's about 6. Very sweet. She makes snowangels sometimes. It hurts to see them eventually walked over and disregarded, so he doesn't really like it when she makes them. But sometimes she makes snow sculptures, snow bunnies and snow monsters, and Papyrus thinks he’d like to try that someday.

For now, though, he doesn't try. Doesn't even consider it an option. It's something for a different “him”, but… maybe he'll be that “him” someday.

Papyrus likes to observe the icicles that dangle off all the major buildings in town. Long, steady, gleaming and sharp. Eventually, most of them fall down and get replaced by others like them, but there’s a few that manage to hang on. There’s one that’s been on the eave of an old house since he arrived in town, and it’s silly, very silly, but he’s rooting for it to stay there.

It’s not exactly “fun,” but it’s a nice distraction when he’s otherwise feeling… _whatever_ it is he’s feeling.

He likes going outside.

He doesn't like going outside of town.

That is, he doesn't like being alone instead of blended in with the local crowds. If someone sees him out there in the open, out of town, there’s just no recourse. He can't blend in and hide. If one of them happened to arrive, happened to see him, he would have to handle that, and even after all this time, he can’t. He can send them fruit baskets forever, but he doesn’t know what to say.

(Distantly, he knows he’s angry at them. Distantly, he knows he’s not the type to hold on to anger. But it doesn’t feel like anger, and there are things it isn’t his place to forgive, and the things he can… he’s not certain that he wants to.)

It’s weird. He feels safest alone… but never too alone. It’s safer in a crowd, but then he has to deal with the crowd.

It hits him that at one point he used to like crowds, and people, and busy roads, and all the bustle. It used to make him feel alive. Much more alive than he had just sitting at home, nothing left to cook, nothing left to clean, but nowhere left to go. When things had been “good”, being out there in the world had been better.

Now, he's not really sure what's good, but maybe everything is getting better.

Maybe.

 

* * *

 

Money starts running tight, and Papyrus starts asking around about jobs.

Technically, if he was a worse person, he would be much better off. Harissa hasn't come to collect yet. Technically, he should have paid up last week, but some stubborn part of him refuses to pay until she asks. She hasn't. An even more stubborn part refuses to not pay, though, and the money is already ready in a little vase that came with the room. But still, he can't help but think about the options. There was a deposit when he first arrived, but other than that, she's given him a good deal: payment at the end of the month, rather than the start of it. Papyrus doesn't know much about hotels and payments and things like that– his 'real world’ experience was, to this point, fairly limited– but he thinks it's odd, because he could just… leave. If he wanted to. He would lose the deposit… but that's it.

He won't do that, of course. He refuses to believe that cheating someone out of anything, lying, stealing, or… or _anything_ else, could ever be worth it. Maybe he mostly gains. Maybe the bunnies lose very little. It's still a betrayal and he refuses to consider it.

Still, he's not in a rush to remind her.

 

He can stay another month without issues, even if he can't find a job… but he's not going to have money for much else if he doesn't.

It's tough.

It wouldn't be so tough if he had planned this from the start. If he had thought things through… but money only recently has become a concept he can comprehend again. The numbers and figures were just numbers and figures, but now they're connected to something. Now they're real. They were always real but for a while they just didn't add up to anything. Now they're everything, and he can't stop running the numbers, now that he has started. It would be an improvement, if it wasn't a constant source of anxiety.

 

He knows there are teenagers living in the woods. He thinks he's heard that right? Their parents bring them food, and they all rely on each other. If nothing else, it's an option. Maybe he has no one to bring food, and he would be alone. It's still viable. Something to remember. Something to consider. If the worst comes, living out there is possible. He doesn't have to go back. If he runs out of options, that one will remain. It's very good to remember. In fact, he considers writing a note, sticking it in the inside flap of his suitcase. In case something happens on a foggy, desperate day. Then, he can remember. It'll be like an arrow, pointing in the right direction.

Today, he's not going to write the note, though. It feels a little like giving up, and he has a possible job lined up. It’s a long shot, but there’s still hope.

The bar in town is looking for someone to help clean tables, wash dishes, do simple work, simple tasks… be helpful. The actual job description sounds perfect. Papyrus has always been studiously tidy, his current living situation aside, and the work is simple enough, mechanical enough, that he thinks maybe he could manage even on his worst days, of which he still has many.

(Thankfully, today isn't one. That's fortunate because he needs to make a wonderful impression.)

The downside of working for Grillby is… working with Grillby. Papyrus… doesn't really like Grillby, though it's a rude thought to have. Grillby has done nothing to earn that dislike.

 

Papyrus has only been to Grillby’s a few times. The whole time something made him nervous. Uncomfortable. Fidgety.

He thought, at first, it was just the crowd in the bar, or food, greasy and slimy (and, admittedly, very good). Maybe the noise. Maybe the tightness of the booths. Maybe the monster at the other table who looked a lot like one of the doctors from the labs. One of their family friends. (He didn't remember the name. He didn't try to.) Maybe the way the dogs stared at him. Maybe the way the light flickered. Maybe the smell of char and ash. Maybe… Maybe… but then the bartender stepped out and for a moment Papyrus felt himself relax.

Grillby has done nothing wrong and looks like no one and still, Papyrus has trouble feeling okay near him. He isn't really sure why.

But he needs money. He needs a job. He asked around, and this was the best option. He thought maybe Harissa's sister (What was her name again? Oh! Miss Nutmeg! How did he forget?) would offer work at the store. She seemed interested in his search… but no such luck.

 

Grillby or the woods. That looks like the choice.

 

* * *

 

 

Papyrus paces in the lobby of the hotel, trying to avoid Harissa’s gaze. He’s feeling sick. He doesn’t want to talk about the rent and worry about the interview at the same time. It’s just too much at once, and he struggles so much with so little already. He’s not sure he won’t shut down on the spot, and that thought alone makes him feel even sicker. Because then he would miss his interview, and then he can’t pay his rent.

He feels like he’s walking a tightrope between two houses of cards, and he’s scared to even breathe. And Harissa is staring at him, and she’s on her phone, and he thinks he hears his name come up on the other end of her conversation, and he stops his pacing all at once.

No no no no no… now he wonders if they’re calling. Asking about him, and that’s one more thing in flux that he cannot balance and he feels like the whole card village is about to collapse and--

 

Miss Nutmeg comes through the doors on her phone, says “I’ll see ya real soon sis,” and hangs up.

“You too!” Harissa shouts from behind him.

Oh.

He almost lets himself feel relief, and then:

“Hey there Papyrus! You busy?” Miss Nutmeg asks, and there’s something in her voice that sets him on edge.

He struggles to find the words, to tell her he is, that he has an interview, but… the interview is… oh. Wait, is today Tuesday? He thought it was Wednesday. Then the interview… He thought… he messed up the time again. It wasn't until tomorrow. Stupid. “N-no… m-m-ma’am nerrr mm… miss n-n.... I- I’m…” he sighs, and just shakes his head. His voice is betraying him today, he guesses. Well, that would have gone well, wouldn't it? He could laugh, or he could cry, but instead he just watches her, and waits for whatever is going to happen to him next.

She seems to notice his discomfort (which only rises when he realizes Harissa is standing up from her desk and walking over to join her sister in talking at him. Like the monsters from human stories, circling their prey.) and so she puts a hand on his shoulder, and wow, wow that does not help. He feels like he’s being pinned. It isn’t comforting at all! He doesn’t know what he’s expecting to happen. He doesn’t even think about that. He’s just upset and stressed and confused and not prepared for this conversation, whatever kind of conversation it will be, but it can be nothing good.

He wants to run, but he knows he couldn’t, he shouldn’t, and he wouldn’t. He just stays there, stiff and stone-solid and brittle like ice.

“Listen Papyrus, me and my sister, well, we been keeping a close eye on you,” Miss Nutmeg says, her grip around Papyrus’s shoulder tightening.

Instinct tells him to stay still, that the pain will be over in time for dinner. So he does. Is he shaking? Is she the one that’s shaking him?

“Hey, hey, easy, Papyrus, easy,” Harissa soothes, and Miss Nutmeg lets go, but she’s still in front of the door. He’s still surrounded. “It’s nothin bad. We promise.”

…?

The skeleton tries to relax, but he’s still rattling just a bit. Miss Nutmeg leads him over to one of the lobby chairs, more gently than she’d been before, while Harissa works her way next to her sister, out from behind him and into his feild of view, while still attempting to give him space.

Once he is seated, the larger rabbit backs off a bit and stands by the door once again. He realizes. She isn’t trying to keep him here, is she? She’s just trying to keep someone else from coming in while they talk.

He felt like an idiot.

What… what was even making him so anxious in the first place? The rent? He had the money in his room, so…

How did he manage to forget that?

The two women wait a bit for him to calm down, and Miss Nutmeg is the first to speak up, as she often is. “Thumbs up, or thumbs down, alright? Do you want to talk now, or do you want to wait for another time?”

He thinks. Eyes closed for a moment of respite, he gives a shaky thumbs up. Whatever this is, he needs to settle it before the interview, or else he won’t be able to speak. Now that it’s started, he needs to see it finished. “I-I can talk. B-but i… i have to… a… a thing in an hour?”

“Okay, well, you don’t need to say anything, alright. We just… we been thinking this for a while, now, the both of us, but guess we thought it was time to talk about it. Sorry for droppin it on ya. We probably shoulda thought that though a lil more.”

Harissa nods and takes a seat in another section of the lobby, not too far, but also not too close. She speaks up. “Anyway, we watch everybody, not just you, don’t you worry.”

“We did take a special interest in you, specifically, though,” Meg adds to a glare from her sibling.

The innkeeper explains softly. “We didn’t… pry or anything. I hope it don’t seem like we did. We respect your privacy,” she glares over at her sister, “I respect your privacy, but we did keep an eye on you. People don't usually drop by on the middle of the night unannounced and decide to stay. You got us curious.”

Meg leans against the door, the bell jingling just a touch at the change. “Can't blame us for wonderin’ or a bit cautious, but it didn't take us too long to realize something,” she drawls, “If me and my sister know anything between the two of us, its people. And Papyrus: you're good people.”

Harissa nods in absolute agreement, and Papyrus doesn’t understand. “We just wanted you to know, of you need anything, you let us know.” Harissa leans in and looks him in the eye. Her voice is firm and solid as the wood this building is constructed from. “I'm serious about that. Anything.”

He still doesn’t understand, but he tries to give a smile and a thumbs up. He doesn’t know what to say or what to ask.

The more brash of the sisters notices his hesitation, but mistakes it for something else. She clarifies for her sister, “And you don't have to think of anything now. It's an open offer. We're glad to have you in town. You've really grown on us both. And my son, too. Like I said, you’re good people.”

“O-okay. Thank… thank you…”

He gets up to go, but Harissa is the one that stops him this time, reaching out with a gentle touch that lasts for only a moment, and for the first time he notices concern in her eyes. What is she concerned about? “Papyrus, I just… I do this for all my guests, especially the long stay,  but I want you to make sure you're aware of it, specifically,” Harissa says, clasping her hands in front of her after nearly reaching out to touch him again. “If someone comes into town asking after you, they don't get to know a damn thing without your consent. And for you, specifically,” she sighs and strengthens her resolve, speaking quickly and quietly, staring directly into his eyes to be sure he understands every word, “if someone comes into town asking, we already talked it out with some of the family, and they'll make sure whoever it is can't come looking for you themselves. Got it?”

He stares at her.

“Nothin’ without you sayin’ it’s okay. This town is gonna be safe for you. We’re gonna make sure of that.”

It clicks. He gets it.

Though he’s not sure why she thinks… but…

 

Well, she’s not really wrong, is she? Huh. And he appreciates it, nonetheless.

He no longer feels as though he’s about to fall over at any moment from all the pressure.

Meg goes back to the store, and Harissa to her desk, and Papyrus retreats to his room, thankful, now, that he got the days mixed up, because that was all far too much to handle on top of other plans.

But he's glad to know someone is in his corner. And the thought warms him slowly as it settles in his mind.

 

* * *

 

 

Papyrus arrives on time at Grillby’s the next day.

The interview is as informal as it is awkward. There's no back room, no desk and chair with a notepad and everything. It's just Grillby on one side of the bar, and Papyrus on the other. The bar isn't closed, but there isn't much business and Papyrus realizes the bartender must have planned it that way.

 

They watch each other.

 

It's quiet.

 

Papyrus introduces himself, with little detail. Just his name, and his interest in the job. Awkwardly, he adds that he is good at cleaning. He considers mentioning his interest in cooking, but that feels… tough to talk about. So he doesn't. But the dead air remains where that explanation would have been.

Grillby doesn't say a word, and Papyrus starts to realize why he feels the marrow squirming in his bones.

It's that quietness.

It's different from the way a lot of people are quiet. It's not shyness. It's something else that he's always known well and never needed a name for. And at the same time, it's the way Papyrus can't tell what the fire monster is looking at, so he assumes the worst. The other's physically blank face that he's projecting a different kind of expressionlessness onto. He imagines Grillby staring at him. Studying him. And at the same time, he imagines Grillby never looking at him, and never seeing him.

Grillby is tall and quiet and calm and methodical and Papyrus feels like he's going to disappoint him. None of that is Grillby’s fault.

But the similarities are striking.

  


Papyrus finally realizes that Grillby is asking him something. The air isn't as dead as he started to believe, but he doesn't understand the question, and timidly asks him to ask again.

The fire monster struggles. Papyrus makes out a word, and thinks maybe there was a second, or maybe that's all that Grillby could manage. And it's… is not going to work, if this is the way it's going to go, is it? In a busy bar, with noise all around, the crackle and snapping of Grillby’s voice wouldn't carry if Papyrus can't hear. No wonder he's been working alone for so long. Papyrus recalls hearing that, or jokes about it, how he always does everything himself, how he never hires help. And that's uncomfortably familiar, too.

 

“I CAN SIGN,” Papyrus demonstrates all at once, without thinking first. It feels weird to do, his hands moving before he can hesitate or stop himself. This isn't something he wants to do. It brings back old memories that weren't terrible at all, until recently.

But something about Grillby’s whole demeanor changes, his flames flicking upward, his body language looking more alive, and the shift is incredible, because he doesn't look at all like Dad anymore. Instead, it's like a mirror from 5 years ago, or maybe 5 months ago.

It feels like Grillby's renewed flame melts away the earlier tension and discomfort and the interview begins in earnest, words flowing from their fingers with spark and life.

The interview begins again.

 

* * *

 

When Papyrus gets back to the Hotel, later than he planned, he feels lighter than air, and maybe he is! Grillby doesn’t say he’s hired, and Papyrus doesn’t want to get his hopes up, but they are up, up, up.

It’s just a job, and yet… he didn’t think he could do that interview. He expected only bad, and he found only good, and it has just been so long since he had a victory like that. When is the last time he’s ever clicked with someone like that? Has he ever?

He’s not sure, and frankly, he realizes, it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter how it stacks up to the past. This great day is in the present, right now, and it’s his, all his. This “him:” the person he is right now!

 

Papyrus comes back to his room and sees it in shambles. An absolute wreck. It looks like someone broke into the place and tried to ransack it.

It’s an absolute, unmitigated disaster.

Of course, that’s not what happened and none of its current state is new. It’s the state it has been in for the past few weeks or so, but it’s as if he’s seeing it with fresh eyes, like the fog has cleared, and he’s no longer seeing only what is directly in front of his face, but all around him.

And instead of seeing an impossible disaster, for the first time in ages, for as long as he can remember, all Papyrus sees is a challenge, and it’s one he knows he can meet.

 

Two hours later, he’s smiling, proud, when he goes downstairs to meet with Fennel and try his latest creation. It turns out, the supposed challenge of cleaning his room wasn’t even hard. He just had to believe in himself, and that was the real challenge. And this time, he met that challenge and passed with flying colors.

 

* * *

 

 

He gets the job!

He knew he could do it! (Well, maybe he didn't know.)

Grillby tells him a bit about the customers and regulars, though he doesn't catch it all, he manages more than he expected. There's a bird who “translates” for Grillby, which he said he actually kind of like, even if they are making it up. There's a guy who's looking for love. There's a guy with family problems. There's one person who loves to try something new whenever Grillby adds to the menu, and a bear that will talk your ear of about politics, even though the town practically has none.

It's a lot to take in, but Grillby assures him that he doesn't need to know right away, and that won't effect him if he ever learns, given his duties, but he might learn anyway, over time, just by observing like Grillby does.

The bartender seems to be excited to have someone to share those observations with, and Papyrus is excited for it, too! Nervous, but excited!

 

* * *

 

 

Papyrus takes to work at Grillby’s like a skeletal moth to a flame monster. It transforms him like a rare few things have.

It builds him up like nothing else.

 

He learns that signing is wonderfully different. When he doesn't feel like speaking, he comes off as less shy, and more open. It's not true, of course; there's far too much he refuses to say or even think, but it's nice.

Neither Papyrus nor Grillby is very used to a conversational partner quite like this, but Papyrus finds sign easier than vocalizing. It flows faster and speaks louder without even making a sound. It's physical and invigorating and he doesn't have to hear himself speak. He can just talk. He signs far more than he speaks aloud while at work, though he doesn't realize how true that is until Robin begins to “translate” for him, too. He thought he would mind, but he doesn't mind at all. They give him the funniest jokes and the friendliest character. Sometimes when he does speak, he tries match it. It doesn't feel like he's being himself, more like he's playing up his character. It's fun!

He never misses a day. Sometimes things are busy, and Grillby will ask him if he's interested in overtime, or working an extra shift. More often, Papyrus decides on his own that he needs an extra shift, or to stay to “chat,” one hand just so happening to clean or fill out the day's next task while the other talks at a pace Grillby struggles to match.

He gets accused of overworking, and maybe that's true. But he loves it. He really does. It's a side of himself he never saw before. He never had the opportunity to. He's a workaholic, just like them, and maybe the similarities should bother him, but instead, knowing he discovered this part of himself without them, this thing that he admired in them that he never had the chance to unlock in himself before… it feels more like a victory. He meets the accusations and calls to rest with laughter. He's not overworking, because he likes this!

He loves his job, and he gets better at it each and every day!

And he takes on more and more, as Grillby allows him. He doesn't want to take away from his boss, merely, he wants to help, and he wants to be a part of something, but he doesn't want to step in and take it over.

He learns about the regulars. Not just the ones that spend the most time in the bar, buy the lunch crowd who he overhears, when Grillby can't. Mrs. Drake is ill. Ham is afraid of change. The Dogi both ask him for bones to give their significant other, and it's the cutest thing in the world.

People gradually let him be a part of their lives, and Papyrus absolutely thrives on it, like water and sunlight for a wilted plant.

He feels more and more alive. Here's busy all the time, but it doesn't feel so stressful, now.

 

* * *

 

He has bad days.

 

He starts to think about what happened. Really think.

Acknowledge.

He didn't know how to feel about them anymore. He misses them, now that he's capable of it again. But he misses the them that they were years ago, and he misses the chances to grow like this with them, instead of without them.

He sends the fruit baskets every week, and never gets a response. He checks in on Undernet, sometimes, and one time he sees that Sans is typing, but he leaves his phone alone on silent and decided to forget it at home when he goes into work, and then the next time he checks, there are no messages.

Alphys sents him an ecard for his birthday, and he doesn't respond, but he appreciates it. He wonders what she knows about this, if anything.

He checks the papers for news about the Core, but there isn't very much. Nothing seems be happening.

He sees the counter of their souls has gone up. He knew, and yet… he tried to forget that night. He really tried. And once he sees that, and remembers, he decides to try again.

Sometimes people can't tell the difference between nightmares and reality. He can pretend to be one of them.

 

Papyrus has bad days.

He finds ways around them. He gets passed and through them.

 

And he has _so many_ good days.

 

There's a kid in town who tells puns all the time, and they remind him of Dad. But the kid's own father hates his jokes, so Papyrus makes sure to laugh the loudest, with great defiance.

He lets a little girl teach him how to make snow angels, and he builds a snow Papyrus.

He teaches Robin how to sign, so they can translate for real, if they want to… and they don't, because they make up much better lines, but it makes both Papyrus and Grillby happy to know they at least understand.

He teaches himself how to skate and how to ski, and the Dogi teach him how to fight and “protect himself” in exchange for bones, and he doesn't feel comfortable fighting, but he loves learning to express himself through magic and exercise.

At Gyftmas, he gives as many gifts as he gets, which surprises him to tears, because he gives so, so many gifts!

And Grillby teaches him how to cook again by being patient and helping him through, until he's back in practice again, and if he cried at Gyftmas, he really cries when he makes a meal for all his friends, by himself, for the first time since he started that fire.

 

Step by step, things get better, and Papyrus grows into the person he always wanted to be.

 

* * *

 

Papyrus is walking out beyond the town limits when it happens.

He’s not alone, but with Fennel, who’s telling him all about his plans for his business.

He sees someone running for them, and stands in confusion and an ever so slight amount of terror.

It’s not a bunny he well recognises. He thinks this is that cousin (or something) who joined the guard and was stationed away. Chervil, right? He’s fairly certain. He thinks he remembers that the guard was going to be in town this week, but he hadn’t stopped by the bar, so Papyrus hadn’t seen him, yet. The skeleton cocks his head to the side, as does Fennel, and the giant rabbit catches his breath in front of them. He seems to be sweating, probably from running in all that heavy armor.

“What’s up, Cherv?”

The guard huffs a few more times before standing up straight.

“Aunt Meg sent me. She says,” he huffs a few more times, “she says that there’s a,” huff, “a stranger in Snowdin.”

“What do you mean?” Papyrus signs instinctively before remembering himself and asking it aloud instead.

The guard points at Papyrus “She says he’s lookin for you, dude.”

The world stops.

 

“M-me?”

“Yea? She says he like… was askin about you by name? She’s keepin him in the store. Won’t like, let him leave or whatever? Till you say it’s cool? Or if it’s not cool, I’ll like, handle him. Don’t worry.”

“What does he look like?” Papyrus asks hands moving as rapidly as his soul in his ribcage and the rattle of his bones. Fennel catches on, and though his sign isn’t usually very good, he gets the gist and asks the question that Papyrus has forgotten how to put into speech.

“Oh, dude’s real, like, short and stuff? Looks like he hasn’t slept in like a year or somethin’, but he looks like he could be, like, related to you? Um, not bein racist, bro, just, you know, looks like he could be your bro if you know what i’m sayin?” Papyrus stares. “Cus he’s made of like, bones. Like a bone monster like you?”

Fennel says in solid deadpan, “you mean, like a skeleton.”

“Yeah! Right! Like a little skellyman! Uh… sorry is that offensive?”

Papyrus shakes his head and tries to clear his thoughts. It’s Sans. Of course it was Sans. But it sounds like he came alone… and… God, maybe they do need to talk. He’s finally in a place where they could talk. But it took so long to get here…

“Okay,” Papyrus says, aloud, and resolute. “I’ll talk to him. Don’t… uh… please tell Miss Nutmeg to please not hurt him? We can talk at Grillby’s, and… if… um…”

“Bro, if things don’t go well with your bro, bro, I got your back. Aunt Meg and Aunt Harissa both say you’re good people.”

  


The walk back to Snowdin is long. And yet it isn’t long enough.  And yet it’s too long.

He doesn’t know what he was going to say. What do you say, after everything that happened? After what Sans did? After what Dad did to the two of them? After Papyrus ran away and tried and tried to forget, and forgot without even trying?

What was he going to say?

He’s dreading it.

But at the same time… he wants to fix this. And he finally feels like he can. He can sort this. He can forgive, if he decides to, or he can decide he doesn’t want to.  


* * *

 

 

It’s a clear, perfect day in Snowdin. And Papyrus has already decided how he’s going to spend it.

He’s going to let Sans meet his family.

 

There’s a lot of them, so it will definitely take the whole day.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaa I wanted to update tonight, so the ending feels a little more rushed than I had planned. I hope it's okay! 
> 
> FEELS GREAT TO BE DONE, THOUGH, LET ME TELL YOU!!!


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